Penélope Cruz: Cannes-Fêted Thespian
Six way tie, but still.
Quick, largely ignorant thoughts on the outcome! Thanks to being placed in the Director's Fortnight, there was no chance that md'a's favorite -- Memories of Murder maven Bong Joon-ho's monster movie The Host, just today covered by the NYT -- would walk away with the Palme. But I, at least, heard no rumblings about the across-the-board terrificness of the Ken Loach. Good job, bud. Must have been one of your better days. Also quite surprising was the win for Flandres, the latest from Humanité's frigid misanthrope Bruno Dumont. I perked up on Dumont after Twentynine Palms, which showed much improvement and more than a trace of, uh, humanity (before capping off with an all-too-typical finale). But the idea of Dumont going to war is too much to imagine, and reaction was predictably split. (Guess which Salon critic was bowled over, though?)
Not a lick surprising were the token awards handed to Almodóvar and Iñárritu. Ditto, for that matter, the continued awesomeness of Almodóvar poster art:
Meanwhile, if this doesn't get a stateside distributor, the terrorists have already won.
By the way. Make sure to bookmark Bilge Ebiri's newfangled Nerve blog, The ScreenGrab, which compiles random and helpful cinema news, and often a day to boot.